by Chloe Jacobs
Greta shuddered. “There can’t be a next time, Siona. I refuse to put you in that position again.” She took a deep breath and looked at both of them pointedly. “If it looks like I’m going to lose it, you both have to promise me you’re going to take me out. For good.”
The words hung in the air between the three of them, but neither Wyatt nor Siona responded.
Finally Wyatt said, “I’m going to go check on the…thing…over there.” He walked away.
“I guess that’s a big no,” Greta mumbled, propping her shoulder against the trunk of a gnarled old tree with a groan.
“You can’t ask something like that of him. His heart would never allow him to hurt you.”
She glanced up. “But you know I’m right, don’t you?”
“It won’t come to that,” Siona said with a frown.
“If it does,” Greta pressed.
“I promise to do what must be done.”
Greta let out a long breath of relief and nodded. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Chapter Fifteen
“So where is everyone?”
“Come with me.”
She followed Siona to the base of a massive tree. Wyatt had stopped to wait there for them, arms crossed and a militant look of stubborn determination on his face. He was such a fierce protector. A smile tugged at her lips. It must have thrown him off, because he stopped scowling and frowned at her.
She looked up into the tree. A small house had been built high up in the branches. In fact, a makeshift ladder hung from a thick limb off to her left. It was short of the ground a good five feet or so. High enough to discourage wild animals, but still low enough for a regular-sized person to reach it and pull herself up.
The trunk was so wide that everyone holding hands might still not be able to close a circle around it. It had actual leaves instead of needles, plus there wasn’t any snow on the ground around it. All of this suggested that the tree formed the center of a sprite’s sacred circle—and humans usually couldn’t cross the magick boundary into a sprite’s sacred circle.
Luke had told her that sprites and faeries shared many intersecting paths in their histories. But while the faeries had abandoned the Great Mother in her time of need and claimed magick from unnatural sources, the sprites devoted their gifts to the earth and were one of the few species still able to claim a tangible connection to Mylena’s divine in the present day.
A sacred circle was where a sprite connected with the Great Mother to renew his natural energy. It was a very personal place and a powerful spot where magick was strong. A smart sprite rarely kept his circle where he lived, because he wouldn’t appreciate others crossing the boundary and defiling it.
“This is someone’s home. It looks like it’s been protected. I don’t think—”
Wyatt touched the tree without any resistance. “The circle’s broken. Whoever lived here is dead. It must have happened pretty recently, because the leaves are still green, but they’re already starting to fall.”
Now that he mentioned it, she looked down and noticed quite a few leaves in various states of decay littering the ground.
She tried to shake off the sadness that suddenly seemed overwhelming.
She could hear the murmur of low voices and shuffling sounds of movement from above. “All right, I guess this should be safe enough for the night.”
Siona started up the ladder first, followed by Greta. Wyatt took the rear, pulling the rope ladder up behind him and tucking it onto a hook beside the doorway, which looked like it was there for exactly that purpose.
The walls were made of oiled, hand-hewn planks, the cutout windows trimmed nicely. The only thing missing was a hearth, but that was understandable considering how much damage a fire would do if it happened to get out of hand up here.
There was a real door, a real roof, and real furniture. A rocking chair with the arms worn smooth from use, a narrow cot against the far wall with a threadbare blanket folded on top of it, and a knotted throw rug on the sanded floor that looked as if it had seen better days. She ran her hand across the wood grain of a small square table.
A quick check of the cupboards didn’t turn up much, not that she was surprised. But when she saw that the table was laden with berries and roots and greenery, she realized the faeries must have been foraging throughout the day along the trail, and gathered whatever they happened to come across. Her cheeks flamed hot. Normally, she would have done the same, but she’d apparently been embarrassingly ignorant of her surroundings for most of the day and had nothing to share.
She was fingering a soft green leaf when Siona came up beside her. “I saw a lot of new growth popping up out of the snow today, and it wasn’t half as cold as it usually is.”
It was almost as if she felt saying the word “spring” out loud would jinx it, but the bright thread of hope was there in her voice.
“When I was young, spring was my favorite season, because it meant my dad would get my bike out of the garage,” Greta said softly. “After a long winter—or what had seemed long before I got dumped in Mylena—spring meant that the sun would stay out longer, so I could ride up and down the street after dinner, and he would always be there, standing at the end of the driveway watching me go.”
Since her birthday was in late April, it had been a tradition to get a new one every other year just in time for bike-riding season, and her outgrown model would get passed down to Drew.
Traditions had been big in her family. Every birthday had been a rite of passage worthy of chocolate chip pancakes in the shape of the first letter of her name. And Christmas had meant new footie pajamas, even after she was way too old for footie pajamas. Sunday evenings had been family game night. And Monday mornings her mom had always driven her to school so they could hit up Starbucks for coffee first—it had been hot chocolate for Greta until that last year—and have twenty minutes or so of what Mom had called gearing up. They’d both named the one thing that they thought would be challenging that week, and—
She shook her head. She glanced down and realized she had a handful of pine nuts squished in her fist. She popped one into her mouth. It was hard to swallow, but now that her entire life had become a Monday morning with endless difficult moments stretching in front of her, she’d probably need the sustenance.
Even though it had snowed today, just like every other day, the precipitation had felt lighter, the winds not as biting. There’d almost been a hint of something in the air, something she’d never felt in Mylena before, like maybe the land was waking up.
Then again, it wasn’t called the never-ending winter for no reason, and she didn’t want to get her hopes up over a day or two of temperate weather.
Still, the image of those baskets filled with fresh flowers filled her head, and Isaac’s eyes as he’d handed her a bouquet. She mourned the loss of her pack, wishing she had something of him.
The prince and princess were sitting on the threadbare rug in the middle of the room, probably because Dryden had wanted them somewhere that he could protect from all sides. They didn’t speak. In fact, none of them did.
She realized with a start that throughout the day, the only time any of the faeries had said a word was when they were talking to her or Wyatt—which had made for pretty intense nonconversations.
She grimaced and glanced over her shoulder. Siona had slipped off to the far side of the room and stood gazing into the darkness through one of two small cutout windows. There was nothing to see outside, but whatever she was seeing in her head had put a harsh, absorbed look on her face.
Wyatt had also drifted away from the group, toward the opposite side of the little house. He looked stiff and unapproachable. His hair stood straight up in places and had been mashed flat in others like a harassed scutter rat. The shadow of scruff across his cheeks seemed heavier, as if he’d gotten three more years older in the span of an evening, and the circles under his eyes were more pronounced.
He looked up
and his expression cleared when he saw her. He motioned for her to join him. She shrugged and complied but almost regretted it as he followed her progress across the room with a look that made her blush.
“Don’t do that,” she muttered, stopping in front of him and crossing her arms until she realized it was the same pose as his, and so she put her hands on her hips instead.
He didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about. “I can’t help it,” he answered with a grin that made his eyes sparkle and her breath catch. He hunched his shoulders and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You’re gorgeous, or didn’t you know?”
He’d said something like that to her once before, but it was even funnier now than it had been then. She looked down at her torn, bloody clothes and snorted. Her hands were dirty and callused, not to mention dry and cracked, and right now she could feel every one of her aches and pains. Her lips were chapped, and her hair was coming out of its braids, and…the list went on.
“Don’t make me laugh,” she warned. “It’s bad for the gash in my side.”
“I’ve discovered recently that I have this thing for strong, capable women.” He waggled his eyebrows, and she let out a chuckle. He had to be teasing her.
It felt good to laugh. Laughing reminded her of the day she and Wyatt met. She’d almost gutted him with her dagger, but he hadn’t batted an eye. In fact, he’d taunted her and ended up inviting her into the secret sanctuary he’d made to keep the boys safe.
She would never have had the balls to do that, could never have trusted him so easily. But he was always able to find the good in people, and he brought it out of others, too.
He slid his finger across her cheek so gently it was like a feather’s touch. She went still, lifting her gaze to his. Even though the look he gave her was still trying to be light, she saw what lurked beneath and was humbled. She was unworthy of such feelings. She wasn’t the person he thought she was.
She stepped away and looked out the window. The fluffy snowflakes had stopped at some point, and shafts of moonlight cut through the breaks in the trees. It was actually kind of pretty, but the hair on the back of her neck stood up. Something was out there.
“What was that?” she whispered, raising her hand.
“I don’t see anything.” He leaned through the window opening and looked down. After a long moment, he added, “I don’t hear anything, either.”
“Neither do I,” she admitted. “But I feel it.” There were no night sounds at all. That brief moment right before the eclipse when the whole world had seemed to hold its breath—this was like that.
Both of them peered out. Greta’s uneasiness grew.
Suddenly, Wyatt put a finger under her chin and tilted her face to his, his other finger over his lips in warning. His forehead was tight as he deliberately looked all the way down.
She followed his gaze. At first she didn’t see it. It was hard enough to get an unobstructed view of the ground through the tree’s thick branches, and the pale moonlight wasn’t strong enough to be an effective source of illumination.
But the longer she looked, the more she knew he was right. Even if she still couldn’t see it, something was there.
She flicked her gaze back to him without really moving her head, conscious of the need to be quiet and still. He leaned a little closer until his breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Don’t try to see what moves in the shadows. Look to the shadows themselves.”
What is he talking about? She frowned and turned back, and before she could try to refocus in order to see what he saw, something shifted just out of the corner of her vision. Beside her, Wyatt stiffened. She narrowed her gaze but it was no use, she lost whatever she’d almost been about to see.
Trying it his way, she looked at nothing in particular, the way you looked at a painting by one of those impressionist artists her mom used to like. If you focused too closely, it was just globs of swirly paint, but if you stepped back…there it was.
She sucked in a gasp. “Blood wraiths.”
Slithering like a snake, darker than the darkness. At first there was only one, but she knew she just wasn’t seeing them all. She tried again and realized the forest floor was covered with them.
Wraiths were faeries who had lost their magick. Without it they became husks of their former selves, barely alive. Amorphous and insubstantial, they wandered Mylena looking to replenish what they’d lost. They were mostly harmless. Sometimes they’d manage to knock over a cup or rustle your hair about as hard as a weak breeze, like one expected from a ghost, but if they happened to gather, they could sometimes manifest enough energy to hold you down and feed. And wraiths with a taste for blood were a whole other problem. They became addicted to the momentary surge of power and obsessed with making it last longer.
Slowly, very slowly, she turned to warn Dryden and the others, but he must have spotted them, too. His shoulders were stiff.
Siona let out a sharp gasp.
“That’s why this place is all the way off the ground,” Greta muttered under her breath.
“No,” Siona answered in a carefully modulated tone. “It may have protected the inhabitant from a variety of other threats, but height will not save us from blood wraiths.” She raised her arm and pointed over Greta’s shoulder, out the window. “In fact, locking ourselves up here has only made it easier for them.”
Greta’s brain was still processing how to pick the creatures out of the shadows. It took her a second to see what Siona was pointing at. When she finally did, the thin sliver of hope she’d been holding onto died, and her throat closed in panic.
It was right there in the tree outside her window. Right at eye level, staring at them.
Even though her vision had adjusted, she still couldn’t tell where the wraith ended and the shadows began, except for a hint of softly wispy edges, like smoke drifting on the breeze. But she definitely saw beady red eyes and clawed hands clutching the tree’s thick bark.
Oh, God, and teeth. Lots of teeth.
There was a scratching sound at the door. Dryden glided over to it soundlessly. He looked to her in expectation. She nodded, muscles tense and ready. As smoothly and quietly as possible, she drew her sword.
“This is not a foe you can best with steel, danem,” Siona whispered. She nodded to one the faerie warriors. “Check in the cupboard for salt.”
The warrior came back with a small container. “That won’t be enough to hold them back.”
“Spread whatever is there in front of the doorway,” Dryden ordered. He picked up a small table and upended it, grabbing a leg and snapping it off. He pointed to a ratty old blanket draped over a chair. “Tear that into sections to wrap the end of each of these legs.”
Realizing what he intended, she gasped. “Do you think that’s really a good idea? This place is old, the wood is dry. One stray spark and the whole thing will go up, taking us and the entire forest along with it.”
“If you have a better idea, you are encouraged to share it.”
The door of the little house rattled against its frame. Everyone jumped.
With shaky hands, the faerie finished lining the floor in front of it with the small supply of salt and darted back on his hands as the door was ripped right off its hinges completely. She heard it crashing through the branches on its way to the forest floor.
Well, that was one way to alert every blood wraith on the ground to their presence. The tree house entrance was filled with red eyes and sharp teeth.
“Death by fire it is,” she muttered. The wraiths really had no shape or substance, only smoky, ghostly shadows. Still, there had to be four or five of them—maybe more—crowding the doorway. They rushed forward to get inside but crashed into the salt line and couldn’t cross. That was something, at least. Only…there was no salt at the windows.
Both Wyatt and Siona each grabbed a table leg from Dryden. Wyatt immediately headed for one window. “Anything?” she called.
He shook his head. “They’re out t
here, but they haven’t made a move yet.”
She turned back to the door and shivered. Her magick stirred, but she gritted her teeth. She would not lose control again.
Skeletal, clawed hands reached out, testing the barrier, but the wraiths hissed painfully and jerked back. Thank the Great Mother, the salt seemed to be holding them at bay.
Siona held two table legs, torn fabric already tied up into a ball on the ends. Wyatt had a flint but the sparks it generated weren’t enough to light the fabric. Her fingers twitched.
Byron looked at her. “You can light the torches.”
She didn’t realize until he said it that she’d been thinking the exact same thing. The temptation to do it was strong. So strong her mouth went dry as a desert and smoke clouded her eyes.
Horrified with herself, she shook her head and held her hands up. “No, I can’t.”
He looked at Siona. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. Desperate, Greta grabbed her friend’s arm. “Don’t let me do it, Siona,” she begged.
Byron pulled out a small tin flask from his pocket and threw it over. “Fine. Then a couple splashes of this will help,” he said.
She gasped. “If you had that all along, then why—”
“No time.” Siona stepped in and grabbed the flask. The strong scent of Mylean whiskey permeated the room as she poured alcohol over the torches. Wyatt scraped the flint again and again, but it was as if fate had decided to screw them over.
Across the room, clawed hands curved over the window frame. A blood wraith pulled itself up to look inside.
Instinct took over good sense as she lunged forward with her sword, slashing and cutting through the foggy threat.
The shadows shifted like a gust of wind blowing dead leaves around, but when it settled the wraith was still there. It growled. How did something like that even have a voice?
She turned at the distinct whoosh and crackle of a fire catching, feeling the rush of warmth at her back and an overwhelming relief that it wasn’t coming from her. “I need one of those,” she called out.